


A Secret to Tell

by Magi Silverwolf (Magi_Silverwolf)



Series: B-I-N-G-O [14]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, Established Relationship, Gen, Indian Tacos, Meet the Family, Multilingual Clint Barton, Other, Powwow, Pre-Canon, Sign Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:15:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25574923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magi_Silverwolf/pseuds/Magi%20Silverwolf
Summary: It was supposed to be a mission. Maybe it still was.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson/Natasha Romanov
Series: B-I-N-G-O [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1413241
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15
Collections: MC4A Year 3





	A Secret to Tell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jetainia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jetainia/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.  
> Warnings: This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers. Please exercise understanding of personal sensitivities before and during reading.  
> Author’s Note(s): I’m literally just slamming prompts together here as I avoid doing the projects that I actually should be working on.

-= LP =-  
 **A Secret to Tell**  
-= LP =-

Cl int startled as a plate dropped in front of him. He had turned off his hearing aids earlier, despite technically being on a mission. Not having the aids in didn’t stop the constant drumming pulsating through his body, but years of being with Carson’s made that almost comforting. When Phil had said they were going to stake out a powwow, Clint had thought the handler had meant some kind of planning committee. 

Yet here they were at an actual powwow, surrounded by Native Americans of at least six different tribes that Clint could identify.

None of that explained why a plate full of lettuce covered in cheese, sour cream, and salsa was sitting in front of him. A plastic fork had been stuck into the top of the pile like the flag of a conquering nation. Actually, now that he was looking, he could see what looked like chili under the lettuce and a base made of some kind of bread. It looked a little like naan.

Another plate of the same thing dropped onto the picnic table opposite of him right before Nat touched his chin with gentle fingers. Only when she was certain that he was watching did she start signing in clipped Russian.

“Bought drinks. Getting them. Stay. Eat.”

Clint supposed he understood why she didn’t use American. Considering that no matter how this clearing in the middle of the woods next to a pond could theoretically be anywhere in the world, it was without a doubt in America, it made sense to assume that any signers present would know either American or possibly one of the tribal languages. Needing to translate Nat’s weird accent still didn’t help the low grade headache he was beginning to feel.

He poked at the food before stealing a glimpse at the patrons of the other picnic tables around him. Most of them had either abandoned the (admittedly pathetically inadequate) plastic forks in favor of tearing apart the bread with their fingers. Others had pulled out what looked like camping utensils. No one seemed to be eating the dish the same way even though everyone seemed to be eating the same dish.

Nat shoved a glass bottle of something green and bubbly in his face as a way of greeting. Clint didn’t startle, too used to her antics by now. He just took the bottle. One glance at the label and he was looking at Nat with his flattest expression. How did she even find individual bottles of sour apple daiquiris? This was just like how she always managed to find devil’s food cupcakes with the macha frosting or chocolate covered blackberry jammy dodgers. It was unbelievable how she could find something whenever she wanted.

“No drinking on the job,” he signed with one-handed Russian at his partner. She reached over with the metal cap to her bottle and tapped the smaller words above the ones declaring the flavor. Nat had actually managed to find  _ mocktails _ ? He grinned at her.

After they had eaten—apparently, the reason he had seen so many tearing into it with fingers is because that was necessary—both of them slipped off to the only building in the clearing. The small building had a room with multiple toilet stalls, another with multiple shower stalls, and then a small dining room with an even smaller kitchen. Neither of them saw any issue with the unisex facilities, especially since none of the people in the dining room seemed to even bat an eye at both of them entering the bathroom together.

With clean hands, Clint and Nat left the air conditioned building. Clint paused a moment before leading them into the crowd of people browsing the large ring of booths that surrounded the large central space where a trio of large drums were set up, each with their own group of people surrounding it. As there had been since the opening ceremony earlier, there were many dancers moving around the drummers. The brightly colored outfits most of the dancers wore stood out against the yellowing grass of the field and the well-tanned leather of the drums.

A curtain of glittering purple beads caught Clint’s attention. He immediately headed towards it. He didn’t need his hearing aids to know that Nat was shadowing him. The booth was a riot of jewel tones. There were only a few more curtains hung up, mostly around the edges of the booth and filtering the bright sunlight. Three of the sides were lined with tables that had been covered with blankets that had intricately woven patterns. Two tall racks with blankets and shawls on bars had been squeezed into the center of the booth space. Every surface had been covered in some sort of container or display with all manner of jewelry. One table seemed devoted just to beaded keychains while another was just painted wineglasses.

Tucked into one corner was a pair of chairs. One chair was occupied by a white cat (and holy jeebus, it wasn’t a regular cat but a bobcat, despite how Clint had never heard of one so pale) curled up sleeping. The other chair had an older Native man who was stitching tiny seed beads onto a fabric that was the color of gold. Propped up against the edge of the nearest display table was an carved walking stick that was easily as tall as Phil (and therefore taller than both Nat  _ and _ Clint). When they entered, the man moved the fabric draped across his lap, hiding the dull silver metal of his prosthetic leg without being overly obvious about it.

Clint reluctantly reached up to turn his aids back on when he saw the man’s lips move, probably greeting them. Before he could complete the motion, the man waved him off. He stabbed his needle into his project and set it down on his lap.

“It’s okay,” he signed in American, clearly fluent and comfortable with doing it while also speaking. “The drums can overwhelm you.”

Nat slid a black cylinder out of a bucket that was full of them. Her thumb pressed a button towards on end. With a flick of her wrist had it fanning open, revealing a detailed scene of dark mountains embroidered with black, gray, and burgundy thread against a crimson background. Judging by how her mouth dropped into a tiny oh, she had not been expecting something she had picked up at random to be so perfectly in her preferred colors.

Clint knew that he had to get it for her. Nat so rarely indulged in material objects. There was hardly any trace of her in their shared quarters back at the Triskelion. Not that Clint had room to talk. Most of the nonessential items in their home actually belonged to Phil, even if they didn’t count the entire room they had sacrificed to Phil’s collection of memorabilia. That collection wasn’t even just Captain America stuff, either. Phil was a bit of a magpie for things and his favorites would always be anything related to SHIELD and its precursor, the SSR.

Before Clint could figure out how to ask how much the fan cost, the man was struggling to his feet and shoving his project onto the chair behind him at the same time. He moved with a stilted gait that favored his organic leg only slightly. Clint snapped his head around, suddenly tense and already reaching to flip the switches on his hearing aids as he turned towards the entrance. Just as quickly as he had slipped into mission mood, Clint relaxed.

It was just Phil.

Wait.

What was Phil doing here?

And why he hugging the booth owner?

“Phillip Julius Coulson, as I live and breathe! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” the man said as he pulled Phil into a half hug. “I haven’t seen you since...” The man trailed off, looking slightly pained and more embarrassed. Phil had a tightness around his eyes that made Clint want to drag him and Nat home to build a pillow fort in the corner of their bedroom that they kept empty for that exact reason.

“Since the funeral,” Phil completed. He gave a rueful smile. “Mom would probably be a bit upset about that.”

“Oh, Julie wouldn’t have complained much,” the man countered with a huffing laugh. “She would understand how you wouldn’t want to stay in pokey little Manitowoc when you could have the whole world open to ya. I think she would have loved if she could have done the same after your dad—well, after the accident. She would have packed you up in a heartbeat if she thought a dig site would be any place to raise ya. Seeing you get to live that dream would have made her happy, I think.”

“Phil?” Clint asked, unable to stop himself at the realization that was beginning to blossom within him. In all the years that he had known Phil, he had never imagined meeting anyone from Phil’s life before SHIELD. The man’s gaze cut to him, zeroing in with an intensity that he had only seen from other agents. Clint gulped in sudden dread.

No matter what Nat said later, he definitely didn’t squeak in distress.

And if he had, it wouldn’t have been adorable. It would have a fearsome squeak, one that struck terror into the hearts of other squeaks. It would have been the squeak to end all other squeaks.

You know, if he had squeaked at all.

Which he hadn’t.

“So,” the man said, drawing out the syllable and twisting the tension in the booth higher, “you know Phil?”

“Yes?” Clint said, refusing to acknowledge how it had come out as more questioning than it should have. 

The man lurched himself away Phil with a cry. His hold was solid when he wrapped his arms around Clint. Awkwardly, he patted the man on the back and tried not to think about how it was better that he had been the target of the spontaneous hug and not Nat. She would have messed up the fan that he was totally going to buy her.

Damn, this guy gave hugs that were nearly as good as Phil’s.

“We’ve lost Barton,” Nat declared in a dry tone. “He’s going home with the hugger.”

“Greg is just...” Phil trailed off before shrugging. “Okay, yeah, Gregg is a hugger. You should have seen him with May.”

Clint met Nat’s gaze over Greg’s shoulder in shock that anyone had hugged Melinda May and lived to tell the tale. Not only that, but the guy seemed to be the type to just do it, too. As if to prove Clint’s thoughts, Greg released Clint and immediately turned towards Nat. The assassin stood stiffly in his arms for a moment before melting.

Her fingers twisted through a few nonsense signs behind Greg’s back. Then she must have noticed how Clint was barely holding back laughter because both hands shifted into a very distinctive sign that even non-signers would be able to understand. Clint lost control of his giggles.

Oh, this was a good day.

-= LP =-  
 _An End_  
-= LP =-

**Author's Note:**

> Challenge/Competition Block:  
> Stacked with: QL (Season 8); MC4A  
> Team (Position): Wigtown Wanderers (Keeper)  
> Round Info: Season 08 – Round 09  
> QL Prompt(s)s: n/a  
> Individual Challenges: Writing with Music; SHIELD MC (x3); Military MC (x3); Neurodivergent; Rian-Russo Inversion (Y); Disabled; Lovely Triangle; Ship Sails; Lunar Era; Old Shoes (Y); Marvelous Cinema; Short Jog (Y); Two Cakes (Y); Eating Cake (Y); Green Ribbon; Greatest Gift; Skittles [Pan Masc]  
> Other MC4A Challenges (Prompt): SpB [3B](Dance/Music); TrB [2A](Captain Obvious); SuB [2B](Lake); AU [3C](Shopkeeper); Ship (Black Bow)[SpMed2](Indian Tacos); Chim [Arcadia](Gold); Fire [Hard](Cutlasses); Hunt [Sp WD](Deaf/HoH)/[Sp Set](Forest)/[Sp Item](Curtain)/[Sp Con](Mocktail)/[Su WD](Mobility Inhibition)/[Su Set](Lake/Pond)/[Su Item](Fan)/[Su Con](Indian Tacos); Garden [Rose Types](A Secret to Tell)/[Plant Food](Savory)/[Word Song](Unbelievable)/[Avengers](Clint)/[Garden Tools](Wineglass/Goblet)/[Plant Types](Married)/[Bed Types](Forest/Woods)/[Chore List](Hugging)  
> Representation: Natasha Romanoff/Clint Barton/Phil Coulson; Deaf Clint Barton; Meet the Family; Accepting Food/Drink as Intimacy  
> Primary & Secondary Bonus Challenge(s): Deadliest Catch; Lovely Coconuts; Bast’s Blessing; Second Verse (Ladylike; Not a Lamp; Persistence Still; Found Family; Nontraditional; Sneeze Weasel; Teat Juice; Zucchini Bread; Middle Name; Spinning Plates; Unwanted Advice; Brooms Only; Three’s Company); Chorus (Odd Feathers; Pocky Pockets; Wabi Sabi; Bee Haven; Machismo; Peddling Pots; Rediscovery; Delicious Lie; Tomorrow’s Shade; A Long Day; Bandstand; Larger than Life; Unicorn); Demo 1 (Lyre Liar; Under the Bridge; Sweetest Burn; Muck & Slime; Snow Lemon; Easy Zephyr); Demo 2 (Surprise!; Some Beach; Hot Stuff; Abandoned Ship)  
> Tertiary & Generic Bonus Challenges: T3 (Toad); SN (Rail; Ameliorate); LiCK (Poppy; Yarrow); FR (Satisfaction; Liberation); O3 (Orator; Ox); CM (n/a); War (Orator; Monomania); TY (Slainte; Ntaiv; Avasa)  
> Word Count: 1853


End file.
